


Let's Misbehave

by orphan_account



Category: Muse
Genre: AU, F/F, Genderbend, Historical, Roaring Twenties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1924: Married for six years, Dominique Brealey begins what appears to be a normal day in her country house. That is, of course, until an old friend shows up out of the blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Misbehave

_No,I think I shall wear the one with red roses_ , thought Dominique Brealey as she sifted through her wardrobe that fine morning. It was the Springtime, after all, and it was finally showing; the sun poured into the bedroom, warming her bare legs as it streamed across the floor _. I am so tired, so very tired of all that drab winter stuff._ She would dress as sweetly as a young rosebud in May. And yet, it had to be the long dress, all the way down to her ankles…perhaps last summer she might have discarded it in favour of one of the shorter, more sprightly frocks, which were ever so colourful, and which she had kept long after the end of her girlhood. They were still in the wardrobe, somewhere.

She doubted she would fit into those pretty things now, though. She had put on weight over Christmas, and what with the foul and frosty weather which had been cruel enough to last until April this year – _would you believe!_ – she had not found the time to walk it off. She glared down incriminatingly at that small rounded belly which had developed, and prayed it was the sort of weight which _can_ be walked off. But no, no, that was silly of her to think - Roger had been talking about children ever so much recently. It must have simply been playing on her mind.

With a sigh, she drew out the rosy sundress, laying it flat against her body. Yes, this would do, even if it aged her a little. It wasn’t as if they were expecting visitors today.

“Dominique!”

Roger’s voice from downstairs roused her, and slipping the dress on quickly, she darted downstairs. Her husband of six years sat reclined in his armchair, looking through the French windows and out across their broad green lawn. _Roger, Roger, Roger_ ; she could not believe it was more than ten years ago that they had first met. At this point he was thirty, and she twenty-seven. She could still picture the day so clearly, the day after he had returned from the war after four long years – he had seemed a different man then, so much older, so much wiser. Only a few months after he had first arrived once more on the doorstep of her family home, they were married.

 _What mad, excitable days those were_ , she thought, meandering over to sit on the arm of his chair. It seemed anything were possible, and everyone was always so busy and vivacious. But now most of her days were spent in quiet repose; watching the sun rise, reading in her recliner, arranging flowers in the hall. It was all very pleasant, of course. But she longed, as anyone would, for the days when she was Miss Howard and her hair was as long and bright as yellow ribbons in the breeze.

“What did you want, darling?”

Roger looked up from a pile of letters he was sifting through, grinning brightly at her. “Oh, there you are. A letter came for you, dear.”

With a small smile, she took it from his fingers. As it turned out it was sad news; a distant cousin of hers was presumed dead, had gone missing. She did not recognise the name, though, and he seemed so distant to her that there was little reason to seek out the family. A spat on her father’s side had meant that Mr Howard and his wife had never raised little Dominique to know anyone beyond her own parents, and it was something she never once questioned.

“Anything else for me, Roger?”

“Nothing else, dear.” He patted her knee reassuringly.

Leaving the chair, she turned back to the staircase, wishing he had said something about her dress, or even noticed -! But there was no hope. Roger never noticed such things. He was a politician. He didn’t have time for anything.

She had only spent perhaps a few minutes in her boudoir, pinning back the loose waves of blonde hair, pulling on a silk dressing-gown and powdering her cheeks, when she heard the doorbell trill. Roger would see to it, she thought; but she could not resist peeping out of the window to glance at who might have pulled up on their drive. Careful not to give herself away, she peered out through the glass; sure enough, by their Chevrolet was a beetle-black, sleek Coupe. The driver had apparently departed his seat already _. Oh, well,_ she thought drearily. _It is most likely one of Roger’s friends. None of my business_ , she sighed, flopping back onto their bed.

To her surprise, the sharp, sweet voice she heard from downstairs was almost certainly a female one. And quite a familiar one, at that – though she couldn’t put her finger on it at first. She had heard it before somewhere, certainly, but it was younger and lighter then. There was a hard edge to it now, she could hear in the wordless fragments of speech, which it had lacked before. Then came the footsteps on the stairs.

“Dominique?” Oh, her life had been reduced to having Roger shouting for her to come downstairs. “Dominique, do come down. You won’t believe who it is!”

Her heart fluttered; there was a marked lift in her husband’s voice which told her that this was not just any old visitor. I knew it, this morning! She had woken with the strange intuition that something most peculiar and exciting would happen today. Oh, who could it be, waiting downstairs for her? Her sister? Cousin Louise? She ran downstairs with her shoes pattering on the wooden panels, the same way they’d click on her mother’s patio. _Click, clack, click_ -

But there waiting in the hall was someone she would never have expected.

Slim and rigid in frame, cloaked in a delicate sash of pavonine colours, Matilda Bellamy had been absent from her life since the wedding. She had changed much since Dominique last saw her, delicate and draped in pastel blue chiffon as her bridesmaid, clutching peonies between her fingers. The endless dark tresses were tamed into a sharp Dutch boy crop, and the flowery dresses of lace she once adored were traded for a dark violet silk.

She could not help but gasp, of course; for Matilda was a shade from the past. She had been away in America – _New York, was it? Yes_ – she had gallivanted off without a word to Dominique. And yet the two used to be so close. Now the sleek, statuesque visitor was turned from her, basking in the afternoon sun like some dark daisy. And even before she turned around Dominique knew she would be faced again with those blue, quick-moving eyes which she had missed for so long.

A toss of the head, and they were upon her. _My goodness! There are winter nights in Scandinavia warmer than those eyes. They chill one’s very soul_. The thin lips curved into a trite smile to greet her.

“Tilly,” Dominique gasped. “Why – I thought you were in New York.”

“I was,” Matilda drawled. “But after six years even New York has become boring. I’m back in London now.”

“Wonderful, isn’t it, Dominique?” Roger grinned, waving the rolled-up newspaper at her in greeting. “It’s just like old times, having you back here.”

Dominique nodded weakly.

“I thought I’d come and see the friends I’ve missed so dearly in my time away.” Shrugging off the shawl, she handed it to the Brealeys’ footman, who took it gratefully along with her little cloche hat. With a promising smile, she nodded her head to the table on the patio. “It’s such a lovely day – we should go and sit out in the sun. Just like the old days, hm, Nicky?”

Mrs Brealey’s ears pricked. She hadn’t heard the nickname for years. She wasn’t sure if she still identified with it.

“Of course,” She murmured, taking a sunhat from the stand. “Will you come too, Roger?”

“Oh, no,” He shook his head benignly. “I’m to go into the town hall today. I’m required, I’m afraid. But by all means, you two have tea without me.”

Before his wife could so much as peck his cheek, Roger Brealey the politician had pulled on his jacket and closed the front door. Dominique wandered out onto the veranda, watching the car rumble down the road and fade into a mild hum.

“Well?” A low voice chirped. Matilda was already waiting on the patio, tapping her foot impatiently. _I suppose she will want a drink._

“Ellen, some tea for Miss Bellamy, please,” Dominique asked the maid. As the servant obliged, she took a seat opposite her old friend and yet did not dare look into her eyes. “You are still a ‘Miss’, aren’t you?”

A ridiculous laugh suddenly barked from between Matilda’s lips. “Oh, thank god, yes I am!” Her laughter muttered away harshly. “Could you even imagine me getting married, Nicky? That quite offends me.”

Dominique tittered hollowly. “Of course not. How stupid of me.”

The tea clinked down before them both, and playing the hostess as always, Dominique refused to take the first sip. But neither did Miss Bellamy; she stirred her tea almost tauntingly, her eyes trained on her companion, that strange curved smile still playing on her dark lips.

Dominique cleared her throat. “How did you find America?”

“Remarkable, Nicky, really. You should have come with me. You would have loved New York. You were always so fond of nice dresses, weren’t you? New York is stuffed to the gills with dress shops. You really should have come.”

“I was on my honeymoon, Tilly.”

An indignant huff came from the other side of the table. “Yes. French Riviera, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And did you like it?”

“Very much.” Unable to sit and stare at it any longer, she took a quick sip of the tea. “Our villa looked over the beach.”

“Fascinating.”

The tap of a spoon against a teacup. Birdsong in the trees.

“And how is married life, Dominique? Are you enjoying it?”

“Of course.”

“Roger is good to you?”

“Yes, I’m glad to say so.”

“I’m glad to hear so, too.”

Another car trekked down the road past the house. There was a sudden gust of wind; the trees heaved, as if breathing with immense effort.

“Roger and I think we might have a baby soon.”

Matilda’s hand shook minutely, sloshing her tea into the saucer. “Oh, dear me.”

“Ellen!” The hostess called, and sure enough the little petite woman tiptoed out to ferry away the offending crockery to the kitchen. “She’ll clean it for you, Tilly.”

“Yes. Well,” The blue probing eyes flashes at her again. “What was that you said? A _baby_? Why, are you pregnant now?”

Dominique recoiled a little; the words seemed laced with unnecessary revulsion. “No – I don’t think I am. But Roger was saying he’d like one.”

“And would you?”

“I don’t know. But children are such sweet things.”

Matilda wrinkled her nose. “Babies aren’t. Babies are disgusting.”

“They say it’s different when it’s you own.”

“But don’t you feel you’re too young, Nicky?” Matilda cried, causing her to flinch. “I mean – you’re only-“

“Twenty-seven. That’s certainly old enough to be a mother.”

“A _mother_ -!” Matilda’s cry was deathly. Ellen, who had peeped out to return the saucer, scurried back inside like a mouse. “My goodness – Nicky, please do not call yourself a _mother_ ever again. It gives me a terrible fright.”

“Well – It’s what I’ll be!” Protested Dominique. “Is this all because you haven’t married? Why are you so bitter? Are you jealous of me, or are you being a pesky suffragette again?!”

“Don’t say that like it’s an insult.” spat Matilda.

“I’ll say what I like – this is my house,” retorted Mrs Brealey. “And you have come in and done nothing but offend me. You’re acting like some silly child.”

“And you are acting like a sad old woman; tell me, Nicky, what is more pitiful?”

Aghast, Dominique glanced down at the lengthy garment she wore. Cursed thing! She wasn’t old; not yet. Being a mother didn’t make her old. Having a husband didn’t make her old at all. It simply meant she’d made something out of her life, unlike the toxic little creature sitting across from her. And who was she to talk about ‘old’, when there was little more than six months between their ages?

“Matilda,” She said sternly. “Get out of my house.”

Her guest gasped, a shimmer in her feline eyes, followed by a flutter of dizzied laughter. “Goodness,” she purred. “You don’t often call me Matilda. Why, if you calling me that, you must be angry with me. Either that, or we’re in bed together.”

And then it was Mrs Brealey’s turn to gasp. Devoid of her bravery, she sank back into her chair.

“Mat --- Tilly, I thought that was behind us. Is that why you’re here?”

Matilda said nothing for a moment. She stirred the remains of her tea idly, smirking. “Those were such wonderful days, Nicky. Are you really that eager to forget them? All that fun we had, when all the boys were away?”

“That was in the past.” Dominique hid her eyes beneath the brim of her hat. “I’m married now.”

“So what?”

“ _So what?!_ Roger is my _husband_ , Tilly! I couldn’t do that to him. It would break his heart.”

Matilda frowned, dropping the spoon, her nervous hands fidgeting on her lap. “Oh, but Nicky, all this time I’ve been away, I’ve been thinking of you.” The dark lips drooped; the eyes flashed wet with what might have been tears. But Dominique had learnt that Matilda was an excellent actress. “There were so many men and women in New York, Nicky. But I only thought of you, and knowing that you want to forget me – that breaks _my_ heart.”

“I’m sure it does,” muttered Dominique coldly.

“ _Do_ tell me, Nicky – have you thought of me too, no matter how much you’d like to forget?”

The wind rustled Dominique’s yellow curls, ornate as a wreath of golden orchids. Her lips remained pursed. Somewhere in the distance she found something intensely interesting, but visible only to her. With a heavy sigh, Matilda rose from her seat, her sleek bob bouncing with the movement.

“Well. This is all very serious talk, isn’t it?” She asked the wind. Dominique did not react, if she heard at all. Ignoring the silent woman, Matilda pressed on inside, disappearing into the hall through the billowing curtains with a muffled giggle.

Dominique turned. “Tilly?” She called. “What is it? Where are you going?”

She was tempted inside far enough when out came Matilda, wheeling a side-table with a brass gramophone out onto the veranda. “Look what I found!” She laughed. “Oh – Nicky, what records do you have? Is there anything good to dance to?”

“Dance? Tilly – you are a child,” She admonished her, though she could not help but smile. _Oh, damn it all_ , she thought as she thumbed through the record collection. _She hasn’t changed one jot. When I look at her she’s still the girl who plucked daisies for me in my mother’s back garden, and kissed my_ – Ah! There it was, the record she was looking for. “Tilly, will this do?”

“Oh!” The brunette grinned like a wolf and took the case from her, brandishing the record which shone in the sunlight. “Yes – Yes, I do love this song. I’ll put it on, shall I?”

Dominique chuckled, and sat back in her chair, watching her old friend fumble with the contraption. At last, the squeal and rumble of the swing band started up; Matilda jumped excitedly, and clapped, and began to dance merrily with herself across the stones of the patio.

“Oh! Nicky, I love this song, I do-“ She cried, between vivacious movements of her arms and splendid kicks. She turned to her, arms outstretched, and smiled pleadingly. “-Do come up and dance with me. It is so sad to dance alone.”

“Tilly, I can’t in this dress,” Dominique hummed, glancing down at the fine fronds of rosy silk. “It’ll tear, if I stand on it.”

A coarse laugh. “Change out of it, then. You still have short dresses, don’t you?”

“Somewhere, yes,” She gulped.

“Then go and get it!” Matilda leapt from the patio, laughing and dancing still, whirling in the grass of the lawn. It had been freshly mown that morning; Dominique watched as she spun in the sweet, living aroma of the grass. She was still so young, still so alive; a butterfly, a leaf on the wind. And what was she? Indolent on a patio chair, still sipping the tea she only drank as a courtesy. Dripping with lethargy, turning to stone.

Finding herself suddenly ignited by fury, she stood abruptly. _Yes_ , she would go and fetch the dress hiding at the back of her wardrobe, that poor half-dead, half-forgotten thing. Damn it if it didn’t fit. She would make it fit, or she would tear it and wear her torn dress as she danced outside in the sun. Either that or wear nothing at all. Anything to break out of this old woman’s dress.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Tilly,” She called, her companion nodding and waving cheerily mid-leap. Not sparing a second, she rushed into the house again, spinning around the bannister at the foot of the staircase and laughing – _laughing!-_ as she raced her shadow into the bedroom.

It was all a game then, something for fun; like a madwoman she tore through dress after dress, hurling each unsatisfactory, shapeless thing across the room and delighting in its ghostly float to the floor. Then, sparkling gold in the very pit of the shadows, she found it – oh, what a beautiful dress! Scaled with countless shining beads like a dragon’s pelt! And with that darling bow – just seeing it, she felt the youth course through her veins again. The dazzling garment radiated and reflected precious glowing speckles as the sun hit its splendorous surface. Setting it down lovingly on her dresser, she quickly threw off the dressing gown, unbuttoned the red roses of the sundress, and shed her skin like a marvellous snake.

And then she stood, naked, in her room for just a moment. It was such a rare thing, to be naked in the middle of the day. It made her feel giddy as a young girl. The skin of her legs was so pale now, being screened away for so many months. When she was a child they would always be brown, for she would never come in from the sun. She bent down to stroke their delicate skin, and laughed quietly at how soft the texture was against her fingers. Oh, but that was enough nonsense for now. She went back to the dresser and took her dress from where is was laid on the desk, and turned around and-

“Tilly!” She screeched, falling back from the shock and drawing the dress close to cover her modesty. “How long have you been there!?”

The intruder smiled demurely, the black pupils large in her round eyes, her hands folded behind her back. “Oh – not long,” She admitted. “The song finished, you see. I thought I’d come and find you.”

Dominique searched for something to say, to tell her off, but the words eluded her. It did not feel like an intrusion, like she had expected. She made no effort to get dressed. The two only stared silently at each other, at loggerheads.

With steps as soft as silk, Matilda began to approach her. I shall scream, Dominique thought, if she lays a finger on me. But even when they were face to face, and Matilda’s fingers had curled around Dominique’s to clutch the corners of the dress, Mrs Brealey did not breathe so much as a whisper.

“Aren’t you cross with me, Nicky?” Matilda began quietly. “For sneaking up on you like that?”

Dominique shook her head. A happy sigh passed between them like angel’s breath. She blinked once, and Matilda was her bridesmaid in blue again. She blinked twice, and Matilda was the long-haired nymph sat beneath the apple tree in her mother’s garden, who had kissed her first and played with the buttons of her dress. The fingers curled tighter around hers, and dragged the dress down, down, and away.

“I knew you wouldn’t mind.” Matilda whispered in her ear. “You always pretend to be so angry with me. But you never can be for long, can you? I know you too well.”

She hovered, lips parted, like a dragonfly before her; and swiftly darted forwards and stole a kiss from Dominique’s pink, rosy lips. Another, and another; Dominique did not fight at all. She welcomed it. In her stagnant forest a wisp of cool air had stolen through dying leaves again, and there was nothing she treasured more. Matilda’s hands cupped her breasts gently, as they had done so many times before, running her cold fingers against the sensitive, pliant flesh. The thin lips fell from hers and drew trails down her jaw, her neck, her chest. She could not suppress a pleasured sigh as the warm mouth sucked lazily on her nipple.

“Oh, Tilly,” She cooed, her eyes falling shut. Her delicate moment of pleasure was interrupted as a pale hand fell to stroke the soft skin of her inner thigh, edging closer and closer to the apex of her legs.

“All that time in New York, all I could think of was you,” Matilda said, one hand cupping Dominique’s face and the other venturing away from where she wished it to be the most, skirting along the juncture of hip and thigh and making her breath hitch. With a practiced ease, Matilda eased Dominique back onto the bed, laying her out as if she were a rosebud opening to the sun.

Matilda laid a gentle kiss to the fleshy part of Dominique’s thigh just above her knee, before slowly scattering them higher. She skirted around her womanhood, a whine escaping Dominique’s lips before Matilda quickly silenced them with a kiss. Sitting astride Dominique’s hips, she lifted the light purple frock over her head; Dominique marvelled to see that she was already naked beneath, uncloaked by so much as briefs or a brassiere. The snowy white skin was as untarnished as she remembered, and just as soft to the touch.

“You knew,” Dominique gasped, between kisses. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t _know_!” Matilda objected with a crass laugh. “I _hoped_.”

If she had known those dastardly plans earlier in the day, Dominique would never have stood for it. But with her old lover’s skin brushing hers like fine cashmere wool, she could never object, and waved it off with a breathy whoop of laughter.

Once more, Matilda traced her fingers over the soft, maternal curves of her body. “I bet your husband never does this to you, does he?”

With a wicked grin, she dived down between Dominique’s legs. The blonde let out a cry of delight as she felt a kiss pressed to her most tender of places; it had been so long since she had been treated as such. Matilda’s hands stroked up and down the undersides of Dominique’s thighs, her ankles crossing automatically in the middle of Matilda’s back, feet twitching with each touch against her. Slowly, she noticed, the chaste kisses turned to the tiniest of licks, slow and tentative at first before becoming more daring, bolder. Dominique cried out, loudly, as Mathieu’s tongue caressed her clitoris again and again. She could feel Matilda’s warm breath against her as she laughed, and their eyes met across the landscape of her ribs and breasts, soft hills and valleys lining the gulf between them.

“Matilda, I...I don’t want to forget it, I don’t-”

Matilda took a sharp, gaping breath as she rose from between her thighs. “Good,” she grinned, lips flushed. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“I love Roger, I do, but you - I loved you, too.”

“I know. I know you did.”

“I used to-- _oh!_ ”

Matilda had effectively ended Dominique’s conversation by resuming her licks, however this time her tongue had begun to probe deeper into Dominique, filling her with a warm, wet sensation that felt so much more than Roger had ever given her. So much more sensitive to her, so much more intimate -! The wave of ecstasy was almost upon her, she knew it; it tingled in her fingertips as they laced in Matilda’s silky hair.

One hand from Dominique’s thigh began to shift towards her womanhood, slowly beginning to rub at her clitoris while the furious tongue went on in its amorous assault. The two sensations combined;  they overwhelmed Dominique, sending her muscles into spasm with the most powerful climax she had ever known; in a vivid flash of colour she saw peonies, roses, every flower that had grown in the garden of her childhood, every backdrop to their first scenes of love. An anguished cry of delight soared up to the ceiling and died away until her soul had been emptied of all its poison.

She lay panting against the pillows as Matilda drew back, and reached for a tissue to wipe her mouth. She felt paralysed, for a moment. Now that the sheer bliss had passed over like the rain, she was left with only the knowledge. _Poor Roger_ , she wailed inwardly. _My poor, poor darling_.

“What’s wrong?” Asked Matilda, who had perched for a moment on the edge of the bed – _their_ bed, _Roger’s_ bed – before curling in to take Dominique’s trembling, bare form in her arms. “You look like you’re about to cry. You _did_ like it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then what is the matter?”

She took in that severe face; she loved it, she loved it so intensely it would break her to pieces, but it was a cruel face. It was a face that knew nothing but her pleasure and its own. Matilda cared nothing for Roger, or for anyone else. She never would. _I bet she smiled and shook hands with him this morning. I bet she knew what she was doing, all along_. But there was no use in blaming her for it. That was how Matilda’s mind had always worked, and always would.

*

Roger Brealey did not return home until six o’clock; by then it was still light, he noticed, and that put a little cheer into his heart. He did hate when it grew dark so early in the day. He would always tell his friends _, you can feel one’s life running away_. Though Roger was not one for fearing old age. He had reassured himself that he would one day make an excellent grandfather, and teach his grandsons how to fish, see his granddaughters marry. That would carry him through the frailty of his twilight years.

He drove the Chevrolet back into its normal place by the garage, grinning as he took in Miss Bellamy’s black Coupe. She was still here, then. He was glad – he had been ever so worried that the years might have changed her, or his wife, and that they would be colder towards each other now. But he laughed at himself; Dominique had not changed much, and from what he had gathered, neither had Matilda. Even after that long stretch in New York, and six years of holy matrimony, their friendship must have escaped unscathed.  He only wished he had found closeness of that kind with one of his friends as a young man; but ah, there is always time for new friends. He locked the car and clicked open the front door.

The ladies were not, as he had expected, out on the veranda, but were sat listening to some drowsy jazz song in the living room, splayed out and tired across the settees. He laughed when he saw them; so lethargic, so utterly spent! What had they been doing, to tire themselves out so much?

“Wake up, dearest!” He called loudly, laughing as his wife and her friend stirred uncomfortably from their reveries. He watched as Dominique’s ruffled hair collapsed from being squashed against an armrest, and her eyes slowly opened as clam shells revealing pearls. Oh, how he loved her eyes. Every inch of her, in fact, was composed of heavenly elements. And that dress! My god, he had not seen her look so youthful and brilliant as that for years on end!

“Darling, is that a new dress?” He gasped, marvelling at the glorious golden garment. “My dear, it makes you look ten years younger.”

“Oh?” Dominique pondered, inspecting herself slowly. “This old thing? It’s from years ago, Roger.”

“Well, you should wear it more often,” He mumbled, in awe of her. “Why did you change into it, anyway?”

She frowned a minute, as if in deep thought, and then her memories of the afternoon seemed to drift back to her. He smiled. _Poor kitten, must be absolutely drained_.

“We were dancing,” She smiled brightly, directing a similar grin to her friend across the room. “And the sundress was too long, so I changed out of it.”

“It really is a lovely dress,” Miss Bellamy observed admiringly from the settee opposite.

“Indeed it is,” Roger beamed, shifting Dominique a little to shrug himself into the space beside her on the settee. “And you, Miss Bellamy? Were you dancing too?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You two must have had a wild time without me. It really is a pity I couldn’t be here.”

“A terrible shame,” Dominique assented quietly.

“And you know, they are going to need me to go into the office once a month now?”

“Is that so, dearest?”

“Yes. So you shall have to spend all your time here alone, you poor mite. Though I suppose you shan’t be lonely. You said you had a house in London now, didn’t you, Matilda?”

“That’s right. I can visit her, if you want.”

“That would be splendid.”

A few more minutes elapsed of quiet conversation, and the night began to deepen outside; Miss Bellamy excused herself, and with a kiss to Dominique’s cheek, she drove off once more in her Coupe and melted back into the darkness she had come from.

“I do hope you two are still good friends,” Roger said to his wife, as the Brealeys stood on their doorstep to wave their visitor away. “She really is an excellent woman. So intelligent.”

“Yes,” Dominique agreed. “We are still friends. Very good friends.”

“I should hope you always are, my love.”

Retreating back into their house, the front door swung shut; the servants closed the French windows and gathered in the cushions from the seats, and pushed the gramophone back inside. And before Mrs Brealey sank back into her husband’s arms that night she hung the golden dress at the front of her wardrobe. 


End file.
